


a narrative in works

by orphan_account



Category: Figure Skating RPF, Olympics RPF
Genre: F/M, Moulin Rouge References, UST, hidden longing, lying to the media, pre-pyeongchang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 11:44:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14377950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Because what Tessa is so afraid of is the story that people don't have any business knowing. It belongs wholly to her and Scott and no one has a fucking say in how they choose to spin it or hide it.Or deny it.





	a narrative in works

They're in the business of telling stories - of long-lost lovers finding comfort in each other's arms again after a separation, of a courtesan begged by a starving writer to reconsider taking a client, of a couple who can't quite seem to forgive and mend broken ties.

And over the course of their twenty-year partnership, Tessa has become quite the master storyteller. She is clear and level-head in the ways that Scott is not, and, with the ability to wear a stoic mask that gives nothing away, she is often the glue that holds their stories together.

She understands that scrutiny comes with success, and with their most recent spate of victories en route to the Olympics, they've all but exploded onto the word stage. Their stories are no longer tightly contained within a small community of figure-skating fans, but now, it seems much of the world is watching their every move, all clamouring to weigh in with something to say, prodding and poking at the fragile seams of their stories that may very well just split right apart.

Tessa feels the need to stay in control of their stories at all cost.

They can spin lots of stories for the media, and they've gotten quite good at it. Because what they've learnt over twenty years is that if they're not the ones in control of their narratives, then someone else would do a fine job of speaking for them, of inventing lies (or even worse, truths) that might threaten the very foundations their entire partnership has been built on.

She and Scott had worked too fucking hard for their partnership to be shaken by irresponsible journalism. So they write scripts in the form of neatly close-ended statements that offer little ambiguity. "We're not a couple. Our relationship is none of your business. We aren't dating." They rehearse their interviews while they practice their skates, the twinned aspects of their careers interlocking as closely as their own bodies. They take turns asking questions, inventing rhetoric. She has the unpleasant task of trying to wear Scott down, her tone accusatory, her questions relentless, and by the end of it, she's so proud of how calm and collected he has managed to stay.

Because what Tessa is so afraid of is the story that people don't have any business knowing. It belongs wholly to her and Scott and no one has a fucking say in how they choose to spin it or hide it.

Or deny it.

Scott is very good at participating in her story-telling - he has come around to the idea that he needs to cooperate. He learns the lines and keeps his emotions in check as best as he can, and he rehashes the bullshit she has coached him into saying almost as effortlessly as he glides on the ice. He learns the terminology to appease her, and even though 'Business Partners" isn't even the term she prefers, it's a good deal better than "best friends" or the ever-effusive "soulmates" that Patrice encourages them to use. Scott is more than the man she has tried actively to not find attractive since she was fourteen and starting to understand the intricacies of having a crush on your skating partner while dealing with the unwelcome side effects of puberty. Scott is not just the only man she would trust to toss her up and never allow her to fall. Scott is not even just the only person she knows even better than herself.

Tessa doesn't know how to articulate this truth about what Scott Moir is to her.  
  
So this is how she justifies the lying: that there's at least a semblance of truth when they step onto the ice and she gives Scott that heady, lust-drenched look she's perfected since even before _Carmen_. She isn't lying when her hands travel all over his body to satisfy her unending curiosity and fascination with his physique: the hard, lean planes of muscle that grow hot under her touch, the expanse of his smooth back punctuated by the sultry dip of his spine. In turn, Scott tells his own truths more blatantly: his wide-eyed open stares that convey more adoration than she can bear, his passionate singing along to every single piece of music, and finally, the way his lips always seem to find solace in the crook of her neck as he spins her into a lift or a final pose.

The ice becomes the only outlet for their very real feelings for each other, even though it is something they're not willing to discuss just yet. Tessa is quite sure there's no English word for how they feel as their bodies entwine during a skate, but she knows it's precious and rare, which is why they've still clung to it so desperately even after all these years. Each time Scott spins her and twizzles in sync with her and runs roving hands down her body is a reprieve from their constant need to fabricate half-truths.

This begins in the two years before Pyeongchang, when she decides she's not ready to hang up her skates just yet. Scott doesn't need to be told twice, and it's no surprise that in his enthusiasm, he wants to do Moulin Rouge. On the couch of his living room he plays the soundtrack for her and they listen in almost-reverent silence. In the melodies she hears Satine's effusiveness that slowly but surely melts into wide-eyed devotion and subsequent heartbreak. She listens to Christian's optimistic innocence and his raw anguish over Satine's death. The tragic swell of the music is powerful in the moment and when she looks over at Scott and sees the same longing mirrored in his eyes, she feels a deep sense of loss for something she never really quite had.

In place of talking about their feelings, they bury their emotions with their work. They take weeks to come up with the programme and its storyline. _It should be easier,_ she thinks, what with all their practice in front of flashing cameras and gossip-hungry reporters, but it's hard to come up with something that truly pays homage to one of the greatest romances in cinematic history.

Then, there is the matter of her fitness and their chemistry. Her knee starts to act up again and in the midst of pain, which she refuses to allow Scott to see fully, she becomes distracted and nervous. She fears letting him down with the fragility and frailty of her broken body. If Scott notices her odd detachment, he doesn't say a word. Instead, his touch on her lingers a little longer, as if to somehow convey his desperate need to feel close to her in light of her emotional distance and refusal to tell him about her pain. It bleeds ugly into their routine. No matter how many times she tries to sync up with Scott in shared breaths, or to try to muster up the emotional grittiness that their characters demand, it doesn't seem to work.

 _Be real with me, T_ he practically begs as they round off the ice. Scott pulls her flush against his entire body and whispers, _you're holding back_. His hand curves around her hip as she feels his warm breath over her bare shoulder, daring her to give in and _just tell the fucking truth already._

Because she knows that sometimes, even the ice is not a safe enough place to tell the all the truths that she wants.

She slides her hand into the base of his hair and wills herself to shatter whatever safety nets she'd previously constructed to keep her - to keep them safe. Out here on the ice it's just the two of them, but even with that assurance that no one else is around, she finds herself still unable to let go of the control she's become so adept to having.

 _I'm trying_ , she tells him, gritting her teeth, even though she isn't really and she knows Scott can tell she's not being entirely truthful. She gets increasingly frustrated with their music and flow and with the difficulty of their choreography that keeps evading their grasp. Her pain refuses to leave. The ice rink seems to echo with their repeated failures, to a point where even Scott's usually optimistic self exhales in deep annoyance and forces her to end the practice early.

When they go home at the end of practice, it's in separate cars and in separate directions. Her whole body is stiff as she drives on, aching with the burden of self-doubt and fear that she might never again be good enough for another Olympics run. She wonders if their partnership has truly run its course. She wonders if it's too late to turn back to the rink and be truthful with Scott again.

When she opens the door of her apartment, she's not even surprised to see Scott there, nursing a glass of wine in her kitchen. She sets down her things and hangs her keys up. "If you wanted to continue practice, you could've just said so." Her voice is gravelly and rough, and she doesn't even bother to look at him.

"It isn't practice that's on my mind." He says, walking over to her. He holds out his wine glass. "We didn't connect today. Actually - we haven't really in a while, T." He takes a deep breath and looks at her with such an intensity she feels it all over, "I know your knee is in pain. You've been hurting for two weeks now."

He's only off by three days but it's a fairly good assessment. "It's nothing." She says, the stubbornness creeping along the edge of her every word.

"Tessa-"

She takes the glass and sips slowly. It's Bordeaux. "I don't want to talk about it, Scott."

He shakes his head. "This isn't 2009 again Tessa. You can't keep evading all this shit that's going on between us."

"Fine." She looks over his shoulder and reaches for the wine bottle. "I just don't think we're good enough for the Olympics." A half-truth, but it'll do, for now. She pours and pours to assuage her guilt.

Scott's brows knot together and he looks incredulous. "What the fuck does that mean, Tess? You're the best damned ice dancer this side of the world and I'm even including the Russians here." He softens his gaze at her. "We're great together, T. You make me a better skater every day."

She has a thousand responses - cold hard facts to break down his brief moment of sentimentality (because _really_ it's not sentimentality that wins competitions - it's facts and the fact is that she's broken in some way and she doesn't know how to fix herself.) But Scott closes the gap between their bodies and suddenly she finds him so close in front of her, practically invading her space and suddenly they're pressed body to body and soul to soul here in the little space of her apartment.

"What are we, Scott?" She feels the ice within her start to fracture. "Ice-dancers? Business partners? Soulmates?" She takes a deep breath. "Lovers who never actually fuck?"

It's the most she's ever given away as to how she feels about him. If Scott is surprised, he doesn't show it. He plucks the wine glass from her hand and sets it down on the table. "Do you need a label, T? Because we could remedy that last one - easily." She's suddenly hyper-aware of his scent and breath on her cheek and the way his fingers have found the curve of her waist as he leans in to her.

She hasn't drunk enough to blame this on the alcohol, but as Scott gazes at her in the too-small hallway between her kitchen and living room, she can't help but let her guard down. She takes a deep breath and suddenly it's like all the logical parts of her brain have shut down almost entirely.

Scott witnesses the change in her instantly. "Are you finally giving in, T?" He murmurs softly, "Is this how it finally begins, after twenty years of being right by your side and unable to do any of this - for real?" His voice is barely a whisper and she's grateful it holds no trace of judgement or resentment. He touches her face and looks at her with this haunting adoration that she knows will probably break her.

"Scott, don't." She doesn't think she can handle throwing an actual romance into the mix. Between her unresolved feelings for him and the fact that they're probably going to fuck up their Olympic skate, she thinks she doesn't have space in her life for this plot twist. But her brain's not telling her no and the storytelling aspect of her is practically begging her to _give the fuck in already._

Scott's face flickers with an emotion she's afraid to name. He holds her close to his chest and murmurs so softly it feels like a ghost, "We should be lovers."

She knows how exactly this story goes and reflexively she thinks about what's at stake: their partnership, an Olympic gold medal, _her friendship with Scott Moir_.

And even though every fiber of her body is screaming, _you can't do that_ , she does. She tiptoes just enough to kiss him for real, for the first time. Scott's lips are softer in this kiss than when they're pressed to her neck during skates and she takes this first hit of him _hard_. She lets herself overdose on his scent and taste and the utter warmth of his solid body against hers. She can't tell whose tongue is slipping into whose mouth but she knows she likes it; she likes how much their kiss lacks finesse and beauty. Scott sucks on her lower lip and breathes her name and she loses all restraint completely. She's the one who shoves him into the wall first, a half-fist in his hair, feeling the sexual tension of the last ten years unfurling out of her like a tidal wave. She slants her mouth to kiss him more deeply and he lifts her up, aligning their bodies so that she's wrapped around him so closely it's hard to tell who's really in control.

Scott's very good at removing her clothes while she's caught up in his arms. She's down to her bra and panties and he's lost his shirt somewhere in the fray. She bites down on his shoulder and makes a mark that she's very proud of. In turn, he curls a hand around the back of her neck as his lips and tongue find its base, nipping at the pulse point he discovers. She presses her hips urgently into his and finds him as hard and wanting as she is wet and throbbing. "Scott please." She begs, undone.

"Tell me what you want." His voice is raspy and he's so flushed all over. "Tell me exactly, Tessa."

And so she does, in graphic detail. _I want you, Scott Moir. I want your body and your soul and everything else in between._ She takes his hand and slides it into her panties and tells him _I want you to touch me here until I come and then I want you to taste how good it is._

Scott's fingers slide into her with embarrassing ease. She's slick and tight and he feels so much better than her own hand. He's a little rough inside her, which she likes, but soft, too, when he's teasing her clit with his thumb. _More, please_. He's a very fast learner and alternates between fast and slow, teasing and taunting her. She's trembling now as he whispers, _good girl_. She's completely soaked through her panties, but he doesn't let her come yet. He rips the fragile scrap of cotton from her and instantly he's left her bare.

It's only when he lifts her onto his shoulders that she realizes what he's doing.

It's their fucking lift.

A momentary panic seizes her and she tries hard to get down from atop his shoulders. _No, Scott, I can't - I can't do it._

He doesn't pay attention. Instead, he steadies her against the wall and wraps her legs around his neck and she can feel his deep breaths against her wetness. The first lick catches her off guard and she arches her back instinctively, feeling the brief jolt of pleasure reverberate throughout her body. Scott holds her more firmly in place and she understands the insistent hand against her, keeping her pressed more firmly into the wall, maintaining her balance.

 _Steady, T_ , he whispers, and she slowly surrenders to Scott's tongue and hot breath as his mouth presses intimately over her, sucking and swallowing and _doing this thing with the flat of his tongue_ and it's too fucking much. It doesn't take long for her to come and when she does, she cries out his name, over and over, and trembles violently in the aftershock.

When he finally releases her and lets her down gently into his arms, she kisses him and tastes herself on his lips. _I want you inside me_ , she whispers between kisses, dragging him through the hallway into her bedroom and onto her bed, flat on his back. Tessa straddles him and tries to unzip his fly and he's so hard she struggles to pull the zip down.

 _Slow down T, we've got all night._ His voice is deep and rich and he wraps a hand around her ass and squeezes her gently.

This time, she's the one that doesn't pay attention. _I want you now_ , _Scott. We have an entire lifetime to take it slow._ She doesn't register the implications of her words, nor of the way Scott looks at her as if he's seeing her truly for the first time, his eyes shiny and vulnerable. Instead she takes his cock and spreads her legs above him and eases down slowly, taking him all the way to the hilt. She can hear him gasp beneath her and it feels like losing her virginity all over again.

They seem to instinctively find a rhythm to fuck to, and she loves how good Scott feels inside her. He's making all this delicious sounds that are slowly filling the night air and she finds herself answering back with her own noises. She relishes how deeply he is inside her and how intimately they're joined, and when she picks up her pace and squeezes him inside her, Scott's moan is music to her ears. _Tessa you feel so fucking good. Please don't stop, don't you dare stop. Oh my god Tessa don't ever stop._

 _I'm not going anywhere._ Her promise is whispered into his sweaty dark hair which falls over his ear, and she feels her words close in like the loop of a wedding band. She feels him moving inside her, frantic now, his breaths getting shallow and his body radiating heat. _Mine, mine, mine_ , she thinks, _no one else's_. She shudders when Scott arches up against her and fucks her even harder than she thinks is possible for all his gentleness, and that's when she truly relinquishes all control. In one swift move, he flips her over and slides her deliciously right under his body. The change of angle surprises her, excites her, and she can see how soft his gaze in when he meets her eyes. He takes her hand and interlaces his own with hers, and it feels like she's giving away more than just an Olympic medal in this moment. Scott is _so close_ , and he tells her so. He's so vocal and hoarse now, his voice an urgent rasp against the hollow of her throat as he murmurs her name, interlaced with all the obscenities that he would very much like to do to her. She commits them all to memory, in case this is all a terrible dream and she wakes up with nothing but a fleeting shadow of remembrance. When Scott comes and floods her fully, tightening his arms around her, her heart pounds in her chest and she whispers the words she has always been afraid to say first.

 _I love you too._ He answers back, later, once the echoes of his cries have died down.

Tessa curls into his sweaty chest and allows the rhythm of his heartbeat to lull her to sleep.

In time, she'll deal with her pain, with their awful skate, and with the way she wants to colour in this new narrative of her and Scott, post-fuck, wrapped up in each other. She might blame the Bordeaux, or even the music of Baz Luhrmann, but what she really knows is that all this has been a long time coming.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I still don't feel like I've done justice to their characters or have gotten their exact nuances correct just yet but I'm working on it! Apologies for any glaring errors. Also, comments are food for my fic-writing soul and my (three-month old) virtue/moir obsession (which has strangely not faded but burns ever-bright).


End file.
